


Foreign Territory

by Castile181



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6706609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castile181/pseuds/Castile181
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an unexpected first meeting with Doriath's notoriously handsome and troublesome prince, the prideful Artanis finds herself thrown into an unexpected world of lust as she succumbs to her baser desires, much to her own chagrin.</p>
<p>prompt: Galadriel takes some time to explore her body after her first meeting with Celeborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foreign Territory

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [merryismaytime2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/merryismaytime2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> Galadriel takes some time to explore her body after her first meeting with Celeborn.

She knew who he was in an instant purely because his appearance and manner lived up so well to the rumors that Doriathrin society so energetically spread and voraciously consumed. He was everything that everyone had said he would be.

There was a certain roguish air to him, the sort of man who always looked as if he had either just come from making trouble or was just on his way to cause it, and the gaggle of ladies who followed him, hanging on his every word and every spare inch of him that they could reach, contributed more to the aura of mischief that surrounded him than they did to alleviate it. 

He had come to a halt upon sighting her, a sudden grin alighting upon surprisingly well-formed lips, a flash of recognition in eyes that were the deep green of the forest. “You must be Finrod’s sister,” he said. His voice was deep, like the low roll of thunder in the distance, the sort of voice that came from the chest rather than the throat. 

And his accent…she recognized it for what it was of course, the musical lilt of courtly Doriathrin, the same accent she had heard from the lips of every courtier and noble in Menegroth, yet there was something particular about the way he spoke, some enchanting cadence in the rise and fall of his vowels, that spurred in her the sudden and most unexpected desire to hear him speak…about anything really…so long as he kept speaking. He could have read her a list of trade goods and she would have listened enraptured. And here she had been thinking that Sindarin could hardly compare to the beauty of Quenya; how wrong she had been.

He raised a hand in a gesture that had no significance to Artanis but seemed to signal plenty to the Sindarin ladies who surrounded him and which caused them to pout for a brief moment, before they turned in a swirl of gossamer silks like a cloud of brightly colored butterflies, disappearing reluctantly into the corridors of the thousand caves, casting jealous glances back over their shoulders. It was not a triumph of her own doing and yet vanquishing them satisfied her nonetheless.

“Artanis,” she said in reply to his presumption of her identity.

“Celeborn, Prince of Doriath,” he told her his name, casting a lingering gaze over her. “I have heard that some call you Nerwen,” he replied, humor flickering in his eyes. “I have heard it means ‘man-maiden’ in your tongue.” He slid his hands into the pockets of his breeches with practiced ease and an air of natural confidence, the lines of his body relaxed in the way that a great forest cat relaxes just before it falls asleep – or before it tears you limb from limb. He was solid muscle, lacking completely the slender fragility of a courtier, but lithe as well, his body bespeaking his profession as a warrior, every line of him imbued with some comfortable ease that she suspected would make him seem as much at home in a tavern as on a throne.

The fading light of the late afternoon filtered down from the illimitless sky of Menegroth’s caverns in a haze of gold, glancing across the long straight silver of his hair. It hung nearly to his waist, unbound and carefully groomed, like a river of moonlight that cascaded over his broad shoulders. Thingol’s hair was the dark silver of steel, her mother’s the pale silvery shimmer of snow, but Celeborn’s was true silver, bright as the edge of a polished blade. He wore a tunic of rich deep-blue velvet, the top three silver clasps of which were unfastened, baring his throat and the beginnings of his chest, where she caught a glimpse of the white of his shirt against skin tanned dark by the sun.

It was only then that Artanis realized she was staring, and she had never been one to stare. Indeed, the very idea irritated her; she had always been the recipient of stares and she was not accustomed to bestowing them instead. And, most especially, she was disturbed at herself, that she had unwittingly found herself so enraptured by the beauty of a Sindarin prince. Of course her mother’s people were Telerin, and she supposed the Sindar were Telerin…in a way…but they had never beheld the light of the trees and, as such, she would have expected to feel a natural repulsion towards the sensations that she found welling within her body, yet instead she felt only a delicious sort of warmth akin to nothing she had ever felt before.

“I frighten you?” He said, mistaking her distraction for reticence, cocking his head in that strange way the Sindar sometimes did when they asked a question, as if they were unsure whether or not it should be a question.

“No!” She exclaimed, but the word came out as more of a squeak than she had intended and, being that she was the sort of woman who certainly did not squeak, she repeated herself, firmly this time. “No,” she said. 

“Ah but perhaps it was the language,” he said, that grin still dancing about his lips. “I’m afraid I do not know a word of your tongue but if you prefer Green Elven…”

“I can speak Sindarin,” she said, interrupting him though she had not meant to do so. It was only half a lie: she could speak Sindarin, just not very well, and her heart thudded in her chest at the possibility of making a mistake, though she really couldn’t fathom why she suddenly found herself so very worried over what he thought of her linguistic abilities.

“I must offer my apologies,” he said, “for not having met you properly when you arrived in Doriath. I was…”

“Involved in a skirmish on the borders, yes, I know,” she said, swallowing hard. She had heard he had a ferocious temper and yet he seemed so very polite…

“Do you always interrupt?” He asked and she blanched, fearing for a moment that she had caused offense before she saw the twinkle of laughter in his green eyes.

“Not always,” she said, clasping and unclasping her hands. She wished she could offer some better explanation but she had no defense save the one she dared not speak: that the glimpse of his dusky skin beneath the collar of his tunic, the silver starlight of his hair, the vibrant green of his eyes and the symmetry of his lips had caused her to forget any sense of social propriety. She struggled to collect herself, feeling the heat of a blush rising in her cheeks. This was not what was supposed to happen! Men fell at her feet; she didn’t fall at theirs!

“So now I see why they named you man maiden,” he said with a laugh and Artanis felt a pang of anger in her heart.

“And why is that?” She hissed, eyes glinting with the beginnings of fury. “Is it for women to remain silent while men speak? Is insinuating oneself into conversation and wishing to be heard merely the providence of men?”

Doriath’s prince merely eyed her curiously, his grin broadening. “Ah,” he said, sounding very pleased, “fire at last. I was beginning to worry that the rumors I had heard of you were false.”

Artanis stood her ground, breathing hard, her ire provoked. “Your reputation precedes you, your Royal Highness,” she said, all fear of impropriety long gone, her words tense, eyeing him suspiciously. “I had heard tell that you were the sort who is quick to cause offense.” His expression was unchanging, deceptively benign, but he stepped forward until he was close to her, so close that she could feel the heat of his body in the thin span of air that separated them, so close that she could feel the fire race through her veins as he reached out, placing a gentle finger beneath her chin, turning her eyes to his as he regarded her with a look of keen interest.

“I do not deny the things they say of me,” he murmured, “I am no poet, but a soldier and thus more inclined to weapons than words. Yet it was not offense that I intended, Lady.” He allowed his voice to lapse into silence as he studied her with those mysterious eyes of his and she could well understand now why people feared him. He used space and silence the way that most men used swords, the sort of man whose presence you could feel even when he was not in the room and she knew that the touch of his fingers would linger for days afterward, yet she did not retreat before his advance, meeting his eyes adamantly. 

“Then what did you intend?” She whispered, jaw clenched tight in anger. It was hard not to be distracted by him. His body smelled like a precious-wood forest, his skin like cedar, and she caught the scent of sandalwood in the gentle breeze that stirred his silver hair, as if he had always lived amongst the trees, as if his body retained the secrets of the forest. His eyes held the memory of a thousand places she had not yet discovered, a far off gorge in winter, the peaks of mountains beneath a burning sun, nights filled with the scattered majesty of stars, as if they had been strewn across the sky by some titanic hand, planted in indigo and kindled to life by Varda herself.

“All I meant to say was that it seems like something your people would do,” he said. 

“What would?”

“Calling an outspoken woman a man,” he replied, leaving her gaping for words. It wasn’t at all what she had thought he would say.

“Do you mean to insult me, Your Royal Highness?” She replied, voice quivering at the slight, conscious of the irony in taking offense at his judgment against her people while she had already justified her prejudices against his.

“Certainly not,” he replied, his voice low, the pine green of his eyes, dark eyes, still fixed unwaveringly upon hers. “I had heard that the flame of your soul was unparalleled and I wished to see it for myself. Your reputation precedes you, Lady.” 

She stood breathing hard, unsure of why he unsettled her so (perhaps because it was already evident that he was not a man she could either manipulate or charm), unsure of why she did not slap his hand away; were he any other man she would never have hesitated. “Am I to be one more fantastic creature for your menagerie then, whom you will provoke at your heart’s desire for your own pleasure?” She snapped. “I am afraid you will find that I am not that sort of woman nor am I the type to be confined, no matter the bars of the cage be gilded.”

He raised a hand, his gestures surprisingly elegant for a warrior, that grin tugging at the corners of his lips again, lips that she could not help but notice were very fine, fuller than a Noldo’s. She could tell that he was the sort of man who was accustomed to being obeyed, who could, with the mere flick of his fingers, muster great armies or deal judgment upon vassals. “Peace Lady,” he said. “It is good to meet a woman who knows her own worth.”

It was a compliment and Artanis drew herself up to her full height in response, too proud to offer thanks. It was rare that she encountered a man as tall as she, and yet he was one; it was rare that she encountered a man she deemed her equal; and yet he was one. They eyed each other with careful regard, like two stags at the edge of a contested territory. “Do you enjoy being so antagonistic?” She asked, her voice quiet and measured now, her prideful wrath of earlier contained. To her surprise he laughed and shrugged.

“Not so much something I enjoy so much as it is a habit that comes to me too naturally to allow me to ever seriously pursue politics as a profession, much to Thingol’s irritation,” he said, a true smile dancing across his lips. “I am far more suited to the battlefield, as you have doubtlessly heard, and as you have certainly surmised for yourself already.”

“That I have,” she said and found, to her great surprise, that a small smile had blossomed on her own lips as well. Something about his candor pleased her.

“A smile at last!” He exclaimed suddenly, his laugh boyish and unexpected, and that only made her smile all the more, though she coyly tried to contain it.

“Did you doubt I was capable of it?” She asked him, meeting his eyes again from beneath golden lashes, conscious of both the fact that she was flirting with him now and the fact that she should not be flirting with him at all. Her people would be scandalized by her audacity to flirt with a Moriquendi prince of all people. And yet, there was nothing dark about him, save the depths of his eyes, and that was a darkness she longed to savor.

“For a moment perhaps,” he told her. “Forgive me if my methods were less than noble, but the truth is that since I returned from our borders I have heard tell of the flame of your soul, how it burns more brightly than even the sun, and I wanted to see it for myself.” 

“So you did provoke me after all,” she murmured, smiling. The idea pleased her for some reason.

“Do you despise me for it?” He asked with a laugh and she shook her golden head.

“I will forgive you,” she told him, “but only if you share with me what you have learned from your little experiment.”

He grinned, taking a step closer, so close now that they were but a hair’s breadth apart, and took her hand in his own, raising it to his lips and brushing them across her knuckles. She could feel the heat of his breath on her fingers and felt a surge of warmth course through her. “What I have surmised is that the flame of your soul is your greatest beauty…Galadriel.” He whispered across her ring before he released her hand and, in the next moment, he was striding away, whistling, making his way across the little creeks that wound their way through Menegroth’s subterranean forests as if he hadn’t a care in the world. And Artanis was left standing there, her body flushed with heat, want screaming in her veins in a way that she had never known it before.

There were a few terrifying moments in which she didn’t think that she would make it safely back to her rooms, in which she believed that nature would compel her to throw herself to the ground and cause her to plunge her fingers deep within herself until she was sated with no care as to who might happen upon her. Heat was pulsing through her in never ending waves, making her clothes feel so hot that all she wanted to do was tear them from her body. 

“Leave me, please!” She cried upon entering her rooms at last and her handmaidens scattered, sensing her strange mood and desperation. The door had hardly closed behind them before she was tearing at the laces of her gown, aggrieved by how many layers she was wearing, cursing every tailor beneath the sun and stars, but all she knew was that her flesh could not contain the heat that was coursing through her body, that if she could not feel the coolness of the air against her skin then she would surely immolate and burn to dust. She liberated herself of her finery at last, casting the garments aside with no regard as to where they fell, and collapsed atop her bed, breathing hard as if she had just run a race.

It was difficult not to begin the main assault immediately and yet she knew that to do so would not leave her satisfied. The sort of flame he had kindled within her could only be sated by the most thorough of ministrations. Her fingertips began at her mouth, brushing across her bottom lip, imagining him taking it between his teeth, carefully holding it in his mouth, the taste of him, the feel of the edge of his tongue against hers opening her mouth, demanding entrance.

And then she pushed her fingers into her mouth, sucking gently at the place his lips had touched in some hope that the flavor of him yet remained in her flesh. She brushed her tongue across her signet ring where his breath had lingered and imagined for a moment that she could taste the crisp bitterness of pines. But what she really wanted in her mouth wasn’t her own fingers, it was him, and she imagined the way that mischievous grin of his would falter into a gasp as she swallowed him deep in her throat. He was the sort of man who would never lower himself to pleading but she wanted to make him beg, beg her for release, beg her to allow him to spill himself down her throat, across her breasts, deep within her cunt until his seed ran down her legs. 

The thoughts only kindled a greater fire within her and at last she released her fingers, needing them for further purpose, and brushed them down across her bottom lip once more, leaving a wet trail across her chin, down the curve of her neck, imagining what it would be like to feel his teeth against her throat, those full lips of his devouring her smooth flesh.

She moved her fingers down further still, a low moan escaping her as she trailed her middle finger around the underside of her breast, her hips already twitching, yearning for attention, her cunt slick and ready for her fingers, but still she refrained. She closed her hand over her breast, cupping it, imagining that his hands were the ones that touched her now, large hands well accustomed to axe and bow, warm and rough. 

She began to knead the tender flesh, trembling with want, her thumb brushing across the raised peak of her nipple before she pinched it between thumb and forefinger, rolling it back and forth. She would have given the world to replace her hands with his mouth, to feel the nipping of his teeth at her nipple followed by the soothing of his tongue, to feel that elegant mouth of his moving down across the soft plane of her stomach to the warmth between her thighs. With her other hand she reached down, brushing her fingers against the soft skin at the insides of her thighs, causing a shiver of anticipation to course through her and a load moan of pleasure to escape her at last.

She bit her lip, whining against it, eyes squeezed tight-closed in the throes of lust, the sounds she had made causing her to feel a flush of shame, shame at what she was doing, shame for enjoying it so wantonly, shame for having such lustful desires for Doriath’s prince, a dark elf. If anyone in Aman ever knew, if they ever found out they would doubtlessly be scandalized. A Finwëan princess ought to be above such base and animalistic desires, and certainly she ought to have turned her desires, more pure and courtly desires, towards a gentleman of good standing with her father’s people, a nobleman of the Noldor, not some arrogant, troublesome, rustic woodland prince. 

Her fingers trembled, hovering above her burning heat that longed for their touch, her breath coming in deep gasps, her other hand still grasping her breast tightly. Dare she give in to her baser instincts? Dare she consummate her desires for Celeborn? Dare she imagine that it was not her own fingers, but his cock that filled her, sated her? She paused for a moment on the cusp of indecision, a bead of sweat pearling between her breasts before it ran down to the left, kissing the underside of her breast as it dripped away.

She dared.

Biting her lip to stifle her groan of pleasure, she pushed her middle finger into herself slowly, imagining that it was the head of his cock that breached her, that he knelt now between her thighs, trembling from want for her. But no, no, it wasn’t enough, it would never satisfy. Desperate, she drew out her slick finger and plunged two fingers in. That was better but still not what she wanted, still not the girth of him that she wished to feel spreading her, opening her up, and yet she worried that a third finger would not fit. Temporarily she contented herself with two, curling the digits upwards to brush against the top of her cunt as she moved them slowly back and forth. 

With her other hand she twisted her nipple roughly before releasing it, fingers dancing down across her stomach to brush against her clit. Even the briefest touch caused a spasm of unbearable pleasure to course through her, her back arching high off the bed as she gasped. Trembling, she reached for her clit yet again, middle finger rubbing in gentle circles across it, groaning as she pulled out her fingers, dripping with wetness, and pushed them slowly back within herself. The sheets were slick beneath her but she cared not at all, all she could think of was quelling the burning fire within her. 

Her hips began to move of their own accord, rocking back and forth in the rhythm of nature, seeking her fingers, and as she grew wetter still she felt the tightness of her cunt abate ever so slightly and pushed a third finger into herself, moaning at the sensation of it stretching her open even further. She paused for a moment, adjusting to the feel of it, and then slowly pushed all three fingers in as deeply as she could while she slipped her other hand down, wetting the tips of her fingers in her slick warmth, trailing the sticky liquid back up to her clit and resumed rubbing slow and measured circles across it. 

The third finger she had slipped inside of herself felt good and she began to slide her fingers back and forth within the tight sheath of her cunt, rubbing the tips against that pleasurable place within her that caused her lips to part to emit soft groans and gasps of pleasure. She could imagine it was only but a taste of the pleasure that he could possibly bring her. 

Fingers could almost certainly never suffice for the hot, hard, turgidity of a cock and she found herself desperately longing to know what Celeborn’s looked like, to feel the girth of it for herself, stretching her open even further than her fingers could, the broad head of it pushing deep within her as he spread her legs and she allowed him, allowed him to take her as he wished, to claim what no other man had claimed. She imagined what he must look like, the taut muscles of his warrior’s body relaxing and contracting as he pounded a steady rhythm into her body, those beautiful green eyes of his gazing into her own, hooded with lust, his elegant mouth upon her lips, her neck, her breasts, his mouth at her ear whispering things she would never have dared to say.

Do you like being fucked by a Sinda?

“Yes!” She gasped aloud, her body trembling, feeling herself contract about the fingers that she worked ever the more furiously within herself. She imagined the way he would feel, how he would tell her how hot and tight her cunt was, how wet, how no one else could ever satisfy him after he’d had her, how much he had desired her.

“Celeborn,” she gasped his name aloud, her lips trembling, the fingers at her clit moving up to roughly pinch her nipples before she returned them to her clit, tossing her head back with a loud cry, golden hair cascading across the sheets. She was far past caring about whether or not this was appropriate. All she wanted now was to cum hard, to feel the tight muscles of her cunt clenching about her fingers as endless ecstasy claimed her.

“Fuck me,” she gasped aloud, a plea to the silence of her rooms and a man who was not there.

She could feel her orgasm approaching, the tightening in her thighs, the hardening of her nipples, the trail of goose bumps that broke out across her skin, the heat in her face, and she moved her slick fingers back and forth all the more rapidly as with her other hand she rubbed quick and firm strokes across her clit. She was wetter than she’d ever been and then suddenly she felt it, some burst of pleasure deep within her, and she came with a shout of passion, her hips bucking wildly up, her cunt swallowing her fingers over and over, clenching tightly about them as her body spasmed and twitched in pleasure. 

Her vision faded to black for a moment and her breathing grew erratic as she gasped for air, but a moment later she collapsed onto her bed sweaty and weak limbed. Her cunt was still twitching from the throes of orgasm, slick with the aftermath of desire, the sheets beneath her soaked through, and she lay panting for air, but a single word escaping her lips as she felt the whisper of want still gnawing at the pit of her stomach and knew she would never be satisfied, not until she had him: “Celeborn.”

And somewhere in Menegroth, the prince of Doriath shuddered and spilled himself over his hand, imagining instead that he had cum deep in the warmth of the Noldorin maiden as he collapsed against the wall, breathing hard, his carefully engineered self control irreparably shattered. Never before had he dared do such a thing outside the privacy of his own chambers, and yet Artanis had, from the first instant of their meeting, ensnared him so thoroughly that he had not the strength to resist the passion he felt for her and had instead taken liberties with himself in a clandestine garden. The first thing that escaped his lips once the aftermath of his orgasm had subsided was a prayer of thanks to Eru that he had long ago made it his business to learn all of Menegroth’s secret places, and the second thing was a single word: “Galadriel.”


End file.
